Drown the pain
by Thatkliqkid
Summary: Hanson's a broken man, stripped of his name and identity, caged for a crime he didn't commit. How can a fish survive in a sea full of sharks? Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

_Hanson gonna die_

_You suh-weet_

_Hey Fish! Step up to your door man_

The cat calls penetrated through to the core of Tom Hanson. He screwed his face up, trying to block out their jeering and the harsh, cold lights of Cell block C.

He'd been in this abyss for two weeks. Two damn weeks. Only eight hundred and eight more to go.

Hanson turned to face the wall of the cell, the hard springs creaking under his weight.

Fifteen years he was in here for. Fifteen at least.

He didn't think he was gonna live to see his fifteenth day.

He was an undercover cop turned criminal.

That's what they all thought

Hell that's what _he'd_ thought.

That bullet they dug out of Tower didn't come from his gun. It didn't.

Where the hell _was_ the bullet from his damn gun?

His chain of thought was interrupted by the intimidating sound of metal on metal. One of the inmates was dragging something against the bars of their cell. Probably something the screws should confiscate.

Hanson closed his eyes, if he couldn't see it, it wasn't happening.

Stripped of his badge, stripped of his name, hell he was just a row of digits now. Reduced to a number. A criminal statistic.

He sighed softly.

They were gonna kill him.

_Kill_ him.

The words sank in.

They were gonna kill him.

But first they were going to torture him because anticipation was half the fun.

He gulped deeply before pulling the pillow over his head, drowning out all light and stifling the taunts.

Even though their voices were muffled Hanson could still hear all their threats. He knew them by heart.

He was just a fish in a sea full of sharks and sooner or later, they were going to come sniffing for blood. And when that day came, no one would be able to save him.

No one.

He pressed his lips together trying his best to stifle the moan, to stamp down the tidal wave of agony he felt rise up inside him.

The tears prickled the back of his eyes, the pillow spotted by droplets, his heart shattering.

And no one cared.

He was going to die here, and no one cared.

He rived the pillow from his face, sat panting with fear and fury, he dragged his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around himself, trying his hardest to contain the time bomb of emotion he felt ticking away within him.

"The sooner you accept what you did, the easier it'll get"

Hanson glared up at the bunk above him, his face splotched by tears, his eyes underlined by mauve shadows.

"I didn't do it" he hissed, his voice laced with fury.

His cellmate snorted with contempt.

Hanson clenched his teeth and dug his fingernails into his knee caps with frustration. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him snap. He wasn't going to lash out, he wasn't going to scream, and he wasn't going to sob deep into the night. He was just going to stay here, stay here silently until the world left him alone to curl up and die.

" You going to sleep Hanson?"

Hanson rested his chin on his knees, staring at the stained wall opposite him. If he reached out he'd be able to touch it with his finger tips.

" Hanson"

" Stop calling me that" he muttered to the wall, his brown eyes heavy with sorrow, sparse of all life.

High pitched laughter penetrated the walls, fiendish squeals of perverse pleasure.

_Fish going insane_

_Hanson going cr-aaa-zeee_

_You ok in there sweet cheeks?_

Hanson bit down on his lip, leaving a groove from the imprint of his teeth. Blood spotted his tongue. Still he didn't move.

"Just cause you ain't talking, don't mean they don't know what you thinking"

Hanson cast his eyes upwards, picturing the other man who shared his days, who was privy to his most intimate moments,

" Oh yeah?" he mumbled his voice thick with defeat.

" Yeah. They know you're scared shitless"

" I am _not_ scared" snapped Hanson. He tried to steady his voice, hoping the tremble didn't betray him.

" You should be"

Hanson rolled onto his side tucking the blanket around his slender frame.

" Just leave me alone"

" 'S not me that's hounding you Hanson"

" 'S not you that's helping me neither" muttered Hanson burying his face against the musky pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Well I don't know what to write for On my own or Love is a battlefield but this seems to be going along nicely (and by nicely I of course mean it is angsty). Thanks to the people who reviewed my last chapter I appreciate it. Let me know if this chap isn't very clear and I'll try make it better LOL. Hope you like what I've wrote for this chap anyway. **

* * *

Hanson watched the lights flicker across the bars clasped to the window, like a train running over a track. He wondered what time it was. He had no way of knowing anymore. Bell went at six, he knew that. No bell had rung, therefore it wasn't six.

He blinked ferociously as the light splintered across the bars drenching him in a pool of white light, his eyeballs aching.

Marco's snores drifted down from the bunk above, Hanson fixated his gaze back on the light wanting his eyes to ache, relishing the sharp shoots of pain that burst within him every time he stared directly into it. If he could feel he was alive.

He moved slightly in the bed, feeling the sheets chafe against his slender body. The regulated uniform hung from his slim frame, he sometimes felt like he could drown in folds of scratchy cotton.

He leant down, plucked at the mattress, feverishly scrabbling for the last item he could claim as his own. Folded tightly beneath the bars of the bunk were two dollar bills. He lay back on the bed, feeling the blood rush, pounding at his temples. He unfolded the bills, flattening the creases with his fingers. He stared down at the money; George Washington reflected in his sorrow filled orbs.

"You'd do the same for me" he whispered lightly tracing over the note, his heart so full of grief he was sure it would burst. He closed his eyes, scrunching his face up tight, creating a barrier against the tears which threatened to fall.

His nimble fingers continued wandering across the bill, soaking up each line, _In God we trust._

He faltered.

_In God we trust._

Did he? Did he trust in God?

He opened his eyes, stared down at the fine print.

Such a little word._ Trust. _

Yet it had the greatest potential to destroy lives.

He snickered sadly; he couldn't believe he'd been so damn stupid. He'd actually had faith in Dennis Booker; thought that maybe, just maybe he'd have let him run.

Doug would have.

_Doug. _

The name pierced his heart, sent flames of regret and longing cascading through his body.

Where was his best friend now? A torrent of rage pulsated through his veins. Where were any of his so called friends?

He'd been trapped here, caged like an animal and none of them had come to see him. To offer him a snatch of hope. Were they just going to leave him to rot here for the next fifteen years?

He clutched at the money, balling it in his fist, frustration washing over him. He inhaled deeply, his breath hitching in the back of his throat.

Still Marco's snores filled the room, oblivious to the turbulent sea of emotion Hanson felt himself trying damned hard to weather.

He opened his fist slowly, the money unfurling on his palm, like the wings of a butterfly crushed beneath someone's heavy fingers. He stared down at the crumpled notes, his vision blurred. Why was he trying to destroy the last thing he had?

Doug had given him these. _Doug._ Did that mean nothing? He smoothed the bills out, easing the creases and folds.

He stared down at them, remembering how Doug had shoved them so readily into the pocket of the unwashed and soiled plaid shirt he'd been wearing. How he hadn't flinched when he'd hugged him so tightly, so overcome with emotion that somebody had come to find him, that even though he must have smelt terrible after so many days of hiding Doug had no problem comforting the small and vulnerable soul of Tom Hanson.

The bunk creaked as Marco stirred, Hanson's heart leapt into his mouth. He folded the bills into a wad and hurriedly shoved them back beneath the bars. These were _his. _His and Doug's. He leaned back against the pillow, holding his breath, as Marco threw his legs over the bunk; landing with a dull thud on the cold concrete floor.

He winced as Marco roughly cleared his throat, his toes popping and curling with revulsion as his cell mate spat on the ground.

"We've got a sink" he commented softly, his tone laced with heavy derision.

Marco whirled around swiftly, his eyes a mixture of fear and fury.

"What?" he barked

Hanson cast his eyes upwards steeling the soft brown into a fiery black.

"We have a _sink_" he said slowly, "This place is filthy enough without you spitting all over the damn floor"

He gave a low gasp of surprise as Marco's weight crashed down on his slender shoulders pinning his body to the bed. He felt the heavy presence crushing him, his breath escaping as a whimper.

"I'm the only friend you've got in here _Hanson._" He snarled, spraying the other man with spittle.

Hanson nodded, his eyes flecked with terror, his heart pounding with trepidation.

"I'd suggest you keep your little comments to yourself, if you know what's good for you." he snapped.

Hanson slowly nodded his agreement, feeling the sharp nails dig into his shoulders, conscious of Marco's strength and the weight which continued to press down on his own slender frame.

His breath floated on a cloud of relief as he felt Marco's body shift, rising from the bed.

"You wanna watch what you say in here. Pretty little thing like you" he muttered scraping a finger along Hanson's cheek, "The next guy might not let up so easily."

Hanson flinched from the intimate touch as if scalded, dragging his body up into sitting position.

" Don't touch me"

"You still don't get it do you?" laughed Marco, his eyes shining with amusement. Hanson gulped deeply, his brow crinkled with confusion.

Marco leant down, his face inches from Hanson's own.

"In here, words don't mean a damn thing. You wanna try being the boy in blue, keep it up, you keep running your mouth and they'll keep sharpening their swords. Biding their time. Trust me Hanson, you wanna get anywhere in here you gotta learn to talk with your fists."

"Like the hammer" murmured Hanson softly, his eyes clouded with sorrow as realisation hit.

"Boy you ain't in no Juvie on some cop case now. This is _prison._ You're a cop killer who looks like a 16-year-old kid. You're jail bait my friend" snapped Marco furiously

Hanson's chest rose and fell with consternation, his heart hammering ferociously against his rib cage as the words sank in. He parted his lips slowly before drawing them to a close again. He ran his tongue over the cracked and chafed skin, trying his hardest to force the words from his lips.

"No one's going to touch me" he stuttered finally.

" No?" questioned Marco, a smug look gracing his face.

Hanson shook his head slowly, his face a mask of fear.  
" No one's going to touch you?" he whispered leaning in closer, his lips brushing against Hanson's neck. The musky stench filled his nostrils, morning breath warm against Hanson's face.

Marco's hand roamed over the smaller man's chest, pinning him against the rough wall with one hand as he explored and invaded the smaller man's torso with the other, his fingers inching over the folds of fabric, heading downwards, further and further

He gave a low groan of pain as Hanson drove his knee into the other man's chest. With a sharp kick to face Marco landed on the floor, a heap of pain.

Hanson scrambled up from the bunk, towering over Marco's convulsing body.

"No one's going to touch me" he hissed, his eyes slits of fury. He wiped his hands on the back of his pants, desperately trying to rid himself of the clammy film of sweat which coated them.

The scream of the morning bell split through the air, Hanson felt his stomach lurch. The day was only beginning and already he'd had to fight off one inmate.

He flinched as the cell block captain; Mr Collins scraped his baton against the bars of the cell.

" Get a move on in there Hanson" he commanded

Hanson turned, scrutinising the guard with a piercing gaze. He wasn't in the mood for mockery or ridicule. He was sure the inmates had that base well and truly covered. He didn't want the guards getting in on the action.

"Did you hear me? Get a move on! You shower, you dress, you clean up your shit!" barked Collins furiously.

Hanson shook his head slowly backing up into the sink, the basin digging into the back of his legs. He clutched at the porcelain bowl behind him, gripping the rim with his fingernails, sending spirals of pain through his already aching body.

" Hanson?"

" No" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

They couldn't make him. He wouldn't go in there. Into the white, blank space where he'd be most vulnerable. Where everyone and anyone would be waiting to strike, the perfect canvas for splatters of blood and dignity, ready to suck all life down the drain with the final shards of Tom Hanson's soul with it. There was no way he was showering.

Collins unlocked the door, with a dull buzz it sprang into life, rattling open.

He entered the cell his black loafers clattering against the concrete floor.

" Hanson" snapped Collins, frustration seeped into his tone, he continued advancing towards the inmate, pausing momentarily when he felt the crunch of Marco's hand beneath his feet.

He glanced downwards to where Marco lay, still huddled up and winded from Hanson's retaliation.

" What the hell happened in here?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry, Sorry, Sorry. I know I'm taking ages updating stuff but in my defence I am writing THREE fics, plus soon I have to go back to the wonderful hell hole that is university :-P. Also I was suffering from writer's block; my laptop deserted me for several days. I know excuses LOL. Sorry but I AM working on it. I'm trying to write the next chapter for Love is a battlefield and I'm sort of attempting to write a chapter for on my own. Anyway I managed to churn out a chapter for this so I hope you like it . Thanks to everyone who reviewed/reviews as usual I really appreciate it. Ok on with the angst!**

Hanson blinked, his lips slightly parted, Marco dragged himself up from the cold ground using the bunk to steady himself.

"Nothing" he groaned wheezily, he gulped deeply his eyes locked on Hanson.

"That true Hanson?" questioned Collins suspiciously. Hanson nodded slowly, his eyes cast downwards, focused on the soiled floor of their cell.

Collins gave an exasperated sigh, neither inmate was going to utter a word about the fray which had occurred but judging by the situation at least Hanson was able to hold his own. For the moment.

"Go get yourself ready for morning inspection Marco" he commanded

Hanson raised his eyes from the ground, the chocolate brown orbs shimmering and burning with unasked questions.

"Go Marco!" barked Collins his tone seeped in irritation.

Marco shuffled slowly towards the prison door as Collins unlocked it, placing the inmate into the custody of a fellow prison warden. He listened intently as their shoes squeaked down the hollow corridor.

Hanson stared intensely, his body twitching with an urgent desire to break free from the cage that confined him. He cast his gaze around the cell, the dark, dank walls closing in on his small frame.

"Why won't you shower Hanson?"

The Cell block captain's question split the air, shattered the silence into a million irretrievable pieces.

Hanson focused his attention on the cuff of his uniform, plucking at the stray threads of blue, tying them around his fingers and snapping them sharply.

"Stop it" chastised Collins, "You're an inmate in this prison Hanson that means you gotta follow the rules, former cop or not"

"Is that the reason you're gonna give my friends and family when they ask why I'm dead?" questioned Hanson softly, "That I died because I had to follow the rules?"

"You're quite a melodramatic son of a bitch aren't you?" smirked Collins

"Melodramatic? Melo-fucking-dramatic?!" cried Hanson, "They are going to _kill_ me! Does that mean _nothing_ to you? You, you can keep sitting in your office, rattling your little nightstick against the bars, close your eyes and your ears to the things they say and do to me._ I can't do that!_ I have to live with it every _second_ of every_ day_. They're always waiting for me. _Always._ I can't sleep, I can't eat. _They're always there._"

"That's prison son. What were you expecting, an en-suite with private shower facilities away from all the big bad criminals? You're a _cop killer_ boy! You _deserve _to be in here, and I can't do a damn thing about that. You pulled the trigger kid not anyone else" barked Collins

"I did _not_ pull the trigger!" yelled Hanson furiously. He recoiled sharply as Collin's palm made contact with his face, raised a tentative hand to his lip, felt the warm stickiness of blood as he pulled his fingers back.

"You following your inmate-cell block captain relationship rulebook?" he questioned sarcastically, his throat tightening with trepidation.

He gave a low moan of pain as Collins drove his baton into his stomach, winding the young man. The weight of the pain reducing the young inmate to his knees, Hanson clutched at his stomach desperately trying to soothe the sharp ache of pain that was shooting through his torso like wildfire.

Collins yanked at Hanson's hair, pressing his face against the cold metal of the baton, cutting a firm groove into the man's already aching features.

"Your big mouth ain't gonna get you nowhere in here _son_" spat Collins, panting with fury.

Hanson spluttered against the stick, his chest burning with agony, his stomach screaming in pain, his entire body coated with a film of fear induced sweat.

He stumbled for balance as Collins sent a boot hurtling in his direction, his slender frame tumbling to the ground, his limbs crashing to the concrete with a sickening thud.

He lay there, his torso bruised and battered, struggling to draw breath, as Collins crouched above him.

"Get up" he mocked, his eyes flecked with disgust.

Hanson dragged himself up on his hands and knees, futilely attempted to crawl a few paces before collapsing to the ground again.

Collins sent another savage kick in Hanson's direction, his boot making contact with the man's ribcage.

Hanson gasped as the pain caught up with the blow, instinctively reaching out to soothe the hurt, withdrew swiftly as Collins' stick bluntly stung his slender fingers.

" You gotta learn to follow the rules in here Hanson"

"Like you?" groaned Hanson, his hair matted, his body aching and convulsing with the hurt. No matter how much physical punishment this place heaped upon him he wouldn't let them take his soul. He had to keep it, no matter how zealously they chipped away at his self worth.

He screwed his face up against the blow, felt his face explode with pain as Collins' boot punted him ferociously. His nose burst with the force, blood dripping from his face, seeping through his clothes, crimson patches spotting the once blue uniform, mingling with the filth and sweat already caked in the stale fabric.

He felt the blood bubble in his throat, spat violently to the ground, a splutter of pink tinged saliva landed on the already soiled concrete.

Hanson dug his finger nails into the dirt, desperately tried to claw himself up from the ground on his hands and knees. He glanced up at Collins through half shut eyes, hair slick with blood, his face a crimson mask.

"Y-You can't d-do-"he broke out coughing, the taste of blood sourly bitter against his tongue.

Collins leant down beside him, grasping him by the collar of his stained and blood encrusted shirt. He brushed his greasy lips close to Hanson's ear.

"This is prison son. I can do what I like"

Hanson closed his eyes, his body weak. The pain searing through every limb, agony piercing every pore, blood seeping from his mouth and nostrils, the purple mounds of bruises trailing across his face like a well trodden path of kicks and punches.

He inhaled, his breathing shallow, his throat tightened by unshed tears of frustration and dismay. He would not let them fall, batted his eyelashes against the stinging droplets which threatened to overflow.

He flinched savagely as the cold wet cloth made contact with his aching chest. He allowed it to slip silently onto the floor.

"Welcome to Fulham Prison sweetheart" said Collins, his mocking tone ringing in Hanson's ears.

With a dull buzz the cell door rattled open, Collins turned the key; the lock snapping shut behind him.

Hanson lay slumped against the wall, his eyes barely open, his head spinning, his body ablaze with pain, streaked by blood and bruises, a mess of red, purple and yellow. He struggled to his feet his shoes slipping in his own blood, he clutched at the basin, his nails splintering against the porcelain as he dug his fingers into the bowl. He dragged his shoulders up, managed to balance himself precariously upright.

With a sharp squeak the tap turned freeing a violent gush of water; he scooped it up in a shaking handful, cupped the water to his face, and flinched as it stung against his cuts and bruises.

He looked down watching a whirlwind of red disappear down the plug hole as it gurgled away.

He padded his face as gently as he could, feeling the coarse material chafe against his tender skin.

He placed a hand against his nose, felt the sweet stickiness of blood as he withdrew.

_Welcome to Fulham Prison indeed. _


	4. Chapter 4

Hanson rubbed his fingers together slowly, watching the flecks of blood crumble at his fingertips.

He gradually limped over to his bunk, his limbs like lead, and gingerly eased himself onto it, the stiff mattress rasping in protest beneath his weight.

He rested his head against the pillow, the room spinning into sallow shades of grey, the filthy floor hurtling up to meet him as he leant over the bunk, chinks of light flashing before his eyes he opened his mouth and splattered the grime coated concrete with vomit.

Doug Penhall stood arms and legs spread wide as the metal detector probed his body searching futilely for hidden objects.

He shot the plump and balding security inspector a blasé look as he demanded the officer empty his pockets. Doug yanked out fistfuls of change sending loose coins scattering everywhere, he watched as the guard scooped quarters from the floor on his hands and knees, made no effort to help the man as he grasped at cents and pennies.

"Other pocket" growled the guard as he slammed the last penny against the countertop.

Doug hid a smirk behind his hair; he fished in his other pocket, pulled out keys and gum, a wadded ball of paper and a photograph.

"Wha's this?" enquired the guard scrutinising the coffee embellished photo.

"It's a photo" replied Doug, slowly enunciating each word as if the man was stupid.

"I can see that, who's the photo _of_ wise ass?!" snapped the guard

"That's me" said Doug pointing, "And that there's Judy, Harry, Fuller and Tom"

His voice softened on the names of Hanson and Ioki, as if speaking their names aloud was forbidden, their absences stretching in the hollowness of their names.

"Ok everything checks out, you go in the hall, you find the guy you're visiting, sit opposite, no contact. Speak into the phone beside you." Said the guard.

"Ok so-"

"Visiting time's twenty minutes" interrupted the guard as he led Doug into the hall.

He left Doug at a table, a glass partition separating him and the other visitors from the prisoners.

He watched as inmates entered the room, glanced nervously around, their sparse eyes shining at the sight of friends and loved ones.

He glanced down at his wrist forgetting that his watch had been one of the first items to go into that shiny metal tray of contraband. He emitted a frustrated sigh, convinced that time was ticking by with no sign of Hanson.

After fifteen fruitless minutes Doug rose from the desk and returned to the guard.

"Where's Hanson?" he demanded, his eyes blazing

"You're here to see Tom Hanson? He's not allowed visitors today" announced Collins, his tone clipped. Doug glanced from the guard who had checked him to this new individual sipping coffee in the back of the office.

"And why is that?" he questioned, his tone similar to that of Collins.

"He became ill in the night, when I went to check on him he became very overexcited and had to be forcibly restrained. He's paying penance for his crimes in solitary. He won't be allowed visitors for the next three or four days" said Collins flicking leisurely through a magazine, coffee cup in hand.

"Hanson, overexcited?" questioned Doug, his brow furrowed with suspicion, his eyes scorched with disbelief.

"Yes. He entered into physical altercation with several prison wardens, me included. Now Mr Penhall, I suggest you go home and someone from Fulham prison will contact you when Tom Hanson has completed his punishment." Said Collins allowing his gaze to rise, his ardent blue orbs locking with Penhall's angered brown ones.

"I'll come back tomorrow. If I don't get to see him you'll be real sorry" muttered Doug, his teeth clenched,

"Come back in three days" retorted Collins firmly, his lips turning upwards into a languid smirk. He continued flicking through the magazine slowly.

Penhall grabbed his property from the tray furiously sending other items crashing to the floor. He stormed from the prison, his chest rising and falling with fury.

He glanced back; the omnipotent building loomed in front of him, a fortress of the captured. The bricks and mortar which caged Tom Hanson and the wire and steel which lacerated his heart and soul reflected back in his grief stricken eyes.

Hanson lay on his back, his clothes sticking to his weary body with sweat and blood. His eyes half closed, light-headed he muttered the names, murmured the words he hadn't said in so long, recounted McQuaids and bowling tournaments, dances and deaths, his contorted body shivering in the confinement of his cell as images floated through the haze of his fog ridden memory.

The buzz of the prison gate intermingled with the shrill shriek of a school bell, the demands of a warden overpowered by the demands of a police captain, the cold hands pressed against his warm albeit clammy forehead replaced by the gentle touch of a friend.

"_Take him down to the sick bay" _

"He's filthy"

"_He's delirious" _

"He's selling guns to the gangs; he ordered the hit on Ioki"

"_He keeps mumbling"_

"_How's_ Ioki? Does he know bout Tower?"

"_Shot a cop" _

Hanson stumbled in the grip of two wardens, barely conscious, his feet dragging against the corridor. His vomit and blood soaked clothes chafing against his damp skin as sweat permeated every pore.

"What_ the hell happened to him?" _

Clothes ripped from his skin, semi healed scars opening, the blood pulsating from his wounds, the bruises dark against his pale skin. The doctor glanced at the battered and beaten inmate before him, his hair coated with grease and flecked with encrusted blood.

His body convulsing as his slender frame shook and writhed with illness.

" Doug?" the plea rose from quivering lips, the blurred outline of the doctor flanked the doorway as Hanson peeked through his eyelashes, the world fuzzy and lacking in warmth.

"You_ need to sleep. Sedation. Sleep" _

The voice echoed in his head, amplified in the vast whiteness. He felt the jab of the needle and the heaviness of his eyelids but as the world became consumed with blackness he knew nothing more than the plea frozen on his lips.

_Doug?_

"How was he?"

Doug startled at the low whisper as Judy's lips brushed against his ear.

He glanced up at her, pencil in hand, idly doodling beside the form he was meant to be filling in.

"They wouldn't let me see him" he muttered, his tone bitter, his eyes torn with regret.

Judy perched herself on the edge of his desk, wanting to be close to one of her friends. The chapel seemed so empty. The bond between the officers blown to smithereens in the past month, Hanson was in prison, Ioki a coma and Booker; Booker might as well have been for all Doug cared.

He hadn't reported back to Jump Street in days, sticking close to Farrell and homicide. He claimed he enjoyed the work there better but Judy knew the man feared rejection from the chapel.  
You'd never be a hero for taking down one of your own. And he'd never be welcomed in the chapel as long as Hanson remained behind bars. Penhall would make sure of that.

She glanced down at Doug's form, at the initials carved there, the usual graffiti adopted by the McQuaids to embellish papers in class.

"You really miss him don't you?" she questioned softly

"Don't you?" retorted Doug, tugging the form away from her. He frantically scratched at the pencil marks, blowing the excess rubber heavily until there was a blank white paper canvas.

"You can still see him, it's not like he's dead-"

"No he's just imprisoned for something he didn't do" barked Doug his voice shattering like glass.

" Doug this is hard on all of us" pleaded Judy, her eyes welling with tears, " What with Harry and Booker-"  
" SCREW BOOKER!" snarled Doug, his eyes blazing, his face twisted with repulsion, " He's the reason Hanson's in that place!"

"He was trying to _protect_ Hanson, to make sure he wasn't shot, or, or run up a rail, Doug he was just trying to _help!" _protested Judy the tears spilling forth

"Well he did a swell job!" spat Doug sarcastically, "He really _helped_ Hanson by putting him in _prison_"

"Hanson could have been shot" sniffed Judy the tears trickling down her cheeks.

"No he wouldn't have been!" denied Doug, "Not if Booker had just stayed the hell away, He was looking for the bullet from his gun, from the _warning shot_ he fired. Only _Booker_ had to interfere. What the hell was he doing there anyway? Fuller _knew _he despised Hanson!"

"He was making sure Farrell-"

"Yeah, Yeah He was making sure Farrell didn't shoot Hanson. Well thanks to him Hanson now has to worry about people doing a lot more than aiming a gun at his head" spat Doug his tone laced with derision.

Judy placed a hand on Doug's shoulder

"He'll be ok, they both will"

Doug tore himself from her grip easily. He scraped back his chair, ignoring the dull thud it made as it toppled to the ground in his haste to leave the building.

He leant against the balcony, allowing the cold metal to cut deep into his arms, the stinging numbness piercing his flesh as he stared out into the parking lot, desperately seeking out the car that wasn't there and hadn't been for so long. His hazel eyes clouded with regret and longing as he scanned the vehicles, the bright blue mustang noticeably absent.

The car meant almost as much to him as it did to Hanson, the link to Tom's deceased father had also become symbolic of his best friend. Now Hanson was gone, so was the car, and everything Doug had seemed to be crumbling to dust before his eyes. All he had to do was wait for the rest of the world to crash down around him, splintering away the last iota of his soul.


	5. Chapter 5

The world was splitting at the seams, concentrated into a dull fuzz of blur, a swirl of colours that Hanson could not make sense of. He blinked rapidly as the room came into focus, the whiteness of the walls glaring painfully into his eyes. He went to rise, sluggishly dragging his limbs into sitting position. He moaned softly as feeling coursed through his body, the agony from his beat up torso easily overpowering the soothing caress of the sedative.

"You wanna tell me how you got in that state?"

Hanson jumped at the sound of the voice, his eyes coming to rest on the features of the doctor sat across from him.

"What?" he croaked his voice hoarse through lack of use.

"Well it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out someone decided to give you a good kicking. Now you tell me who and the cell block captain sorts it out"

Hanson coughed, his frail frame racked by the heavy splutters. He ran his fingers through his hair nervously, flicked the dried blood to the ground as he withdrew.

"Dunno who it was" he mumbled finally, his lips barely parting to utter the words.

The doctor emitted an exasperated sigh, the displeasure at Hanson's unwillingness to point the finger at his attacker splayed across his face. He drew his lips together in a firm line.

Hanson raised his soft brown eyes to meet the ardent sapphire of the doctor's.

" Honestly, I don't know who it was" he muttered shifting uncomfortably on the bed.

" Ok, you can back to your cell in a couple of hours" snapped the doctor annoyed. Hanson gave a shrug, wincing with the pain, as he heaved his shoulders downwards.

What did it matter where he was anyway? There was no escaping the taunts of his own mind, the heaviness of his own heart, the pain which tore through his soul every time he dared to breathe. All that changed was the scenery and right now he couldn't give a damn if he stared at white walls or fouled brick, he just wanted to be left alone. Alone to brood, to reminisce, to pick up the shattered pieces of his heart from the mountain of hurt and despair he found himself hurled upon. He could care less if he sat here in the sick bay or if he was once again confined to the cage which stifled him. He just wanted to hide away from prying eyes and mocking voices.

" Or if you're indifferent to the matter you could always go back now"

Hanson lowered his gaze to the white linen sheets beneath him toying with the fabric, ignoring the dirt encrusted beneath his fingernails.

He hadn't washed in so long he almost forgot what it felt like to be clean. He couldn't enter the shower cubicles though, wouldn't allow himself to be placed in such a vulnerable situation.

" Look Hanson, I know how difficult this must be for you-"  
" How?" he barked harshly, " How could you have _any idea_ what this is like for me? _You're _ not the one who has to be locked in here. _You're _ not the one who gets spit on walking the line, or, or who gets food thrown at them during lunch. _ You're _not the one who gets attacked for merely breathing. So don't you _dare_ stand there and tell me you know _how difficult this is for me._ You don't even have a fucking clue!"

He brought his sleeve to his mouth, wiped the spittle from his chin, the anger exploding from his every pore so that his eyes blazed with rage.

"You're right. I have no idea what it's like for you. I've never committed murder"

"Neither have I" replied Hanson his voice strained

"Sooner you accept the consequences Hanson the sooner you can move on with your life. They'll never consider you for parole as long as you keep spouting that ridiculous lie!"

"It's _not _a lie!" snarled Hanson his teeth clenched.

The doctor shot him a look of pure disbelief, agitated by the inmate's lack of participation in his attempts at rehabilitation.

"Go back to your cell"

"I'm not allowed to wander around the prison on my own," said Hanson flippantly, "It doesn't set to well with the public; they believe prisoners are more likely to escape when unsupervised."

" You know it's no wonder someone decided to kick your ass. You got one hell of a big mouth" retorted the doctor as he roughly slapped the handcuffs around Hanson's wrists. The former officer flinched as the cold metal dug into his flesh.

" Too tight" he winced

" No such thing" replied the doctor, hauling him to his feet. He frogmarched the man from the sick bay forcing him back into the confinements of the cell.

" Are you even allowed to do that?" murmured Hanson softly

" Do what?"

" Escort me places. Surely the wardens are supposed to do that"

" Son this is prison, you gotta understand something, the wardens? They may enforce the rules here but Hanson that don't mean they gotta follow them"

Hanson stared at him; the elder man's eyes were shimmering with empathy. _He knew._

" Tell me about it" he muttered breathlessly.

With a click the cuffs came undone, the doctor removing them swiftly and expertly. Hanson rubbed the broken skin gently, trying his best to soothe the pain. He knew the prison wardens fastened the cuffs too tight, hell he was a cop he knew how the things should be applied. And they _knew_ he knew which is why they gained perverse personal pleasure in watching his skin bloom with bruises.

" You know you could go shower now, I'll let them know you're too ill to work and not up for personal time in the yard. All the other inmates are occupied" suggested the doctor softly.

Hanson raised his gaze from the ground, his face hidden beneath stray strands of hair, his eyes dark pools of fear and sorrow.

"Hanson you have to shower sometime in the next fifteen years"

"Ok" he mumbled allowing the doctor to lead him from his cell like a lamb to slaughter.

He stood clutching his ration of toiletries close to his heaving chest, staring in terror at the blank white cubicle before him. He'd never felt so vulnerable, so intimidated. His shuddered as the cool air kissed and pinched at his naked torso, goose bumps dotting the bruised and broken skin.

With a roar the shower came to life, dousing his aching body with lukewarm water, he turned frantically edging backwards until his spine made contact with the wall. The icy tile pierced his backbone with cold as he rived wet strands of hair from his face; he needed to see, needed to scout the area for all forms of attack. He would have laughed at his military approach to showering if the situation wasn't so heartbreakingly serious.

He crouched down, sliding his body against the wall reaching for the shampoo he'd placed at his feet, rose slowly clutching the bottle by the neck.

He lathered his hair with suds, vigorously rubbed the strands dislodging the blood and grime from his follicles, feeling his body tingle with the roughness of his cleansing. He shivered as the lukewarm water spluttered into cold, swiftly slammed the shower off, wrapped himself in the prison regulated towel, felt the coarseness against his sensitive skin. He scrambled into the clean uniform that the warden had passed him on his way in, not caring that his wet hair left splodges of moisture on the back, dripping repeatedly onto the fabric. He just wanted out of the cubicle before anyone had the chance to pounce.

He grabbed the toiletries up from the wet floor and shuffled out of the room where the warden waited impatiently for him. Once again Hanson found himself encased by cuffs, felt his mobility restricted and his morale stifled.

The cell door buzzed into life, shuffled open with a rattle. With a feverous tug the warden removed the handcuffs leaving Hanson alone to be swallowed up by the dark, dank space.

He lay on his bunk, knee raised, staring up at the metal bars of the bed above trying to imagine himself anywhere but prison.


	6. Chapter 6

**My apologies. University work is REALLY starting to pile up on me. I really should start doing it when I get it :-P Also I've kinda been suffering from writer's block so I'm sorry. I'm trying my best to update as soon as I can. I'm still working on Love is a battlefield and On my own. I haven't abandoned them, I'm just slowly working on them LOL. Also at the beginning of November I go on placement in a primary school where I will barely have time to eat and sleep in between writing lesson plans and the like so I don't know how much I'll be able to write for fan fic. Sorry, I hope you like the chap anyway. Thanks again to everyone who reviews I appreciate it. **

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Doug stared at the rain pelting against the window, scrutinizing the small droplets of moisture intently. He traced a finger against the fog, relished the smear he created.

He drummed his fingertips against the pane, using percussion as an outlet for his frustration. He felt the cold grasp of loneliness tighten, felt the clutch of sorrow tauten as he stared out into the darkness, his own pale face reflected back at him distorted and warped in the black pane.

He startled as the shrill shriek of the telephone split through the air. He grappled for the receiver, sending magazines and takeaway cartons hurtling to the floor.

"Hello?" he panted.

The computerized voice warbled haltingly in his ear demanding to know if he would accept the collect call.

He agreed readily, clutching the phone to his ear not caring that the brittle plastic was digging into his flesh.

"Doug?"

He parted his lips, licked chafed skin and paused for several seconds.

"Doug?"

"Tom?" he forced the word from his mouth, pushed it up and over the lump building in his throat.

"They said you came to see me"

"Yeah. Yeah I did but they said you were in solitary" explained Doug slowly.

Hanson rested his elbow against the top of the payphone, ran his fingers through his hair, pausing as his fingertips brushed against the partially formed scab on his scalp.

"Were you?"

Hanson faltered, he didn't lie to Doug if he could help it but this was different. This wasn't some minor case detail he forgot to inform Doug about. This was prison where the walls had eyes and ears, where everyone was waiting for that one small slip up which meant the difference between survival and death.

"Yes" he stuttered finally.

"What for?"

"What?" stalled Hanson

"What were you in solitary _for_?" demanded Doug, his voice strained with suspicion.

Hanson remained mute, his eyes steeled with anger, his chest tight with conflict. He was supposed to be able to tell Doug anything. Once again, the prison continued to strip him of his basic rights.

"Come on fish people got phone calls to make!"

"Lay off him Nail, Let the sweet thing talk to his boy"

Hanson turned; the taunts burning into his spine, he felt the hostility increase, and the thunderous murmur of condemnation seemed deafening in his ears.

"You ok Tom?" murmured Doug softly

"Uh huh" whispered Hanson breathlessly, his chest contracting with nerves. He felt the nausea rise, his stomach churning violently.

He startled as the warden on duty rapped his baton against the casing of the payphone, narrowly missing his fingers.

"Time's up Hanson!" he barked

"can I say good-"

The dial tone buzzed in his ear, the warden stood, one hand clamped over the phone cutting the call, the other hand clutching his baton menacingly.

"Bye?" finished Hanson weakly.

"Tom?"

The dial tone sung in his ear mockingly, Doug slammed the receiver down furiously relishing the crack it made upon impact.

"Damn it" he growled, his voice echoing throughout the empty apartment.

Hanson stared at the phone, gnawed his lip as he felt the line of prisoners jostle forward; he stumbled as he felt the rough shove from behind. He turned, flicked his hair from his eyes and stared into the burning coals of Nail.

If Nail had been in Juvie, Nail would have been the hammer. He oozed power, radiated meanness, he was stocky and he was smart. He was a master at taking names and breaking necks. He was the guy everyone was afraid of, yet everyone respected. Nail _owned_ Cell block C and he'd decided Hanson was public enemy number one. _Cops _were not welcome in this world. In_ his_ world. Cops deserved to be stamped out like the vermin they were, and Hanson, well Hanson was the newest parasite at the crux of the prison.

Hanson gulped; his chocolate brown eyes wide with fear. He blinked, desperately tried to rearrange his features so that he appeared nonchalant to the situation, Nail fed off fear, and craved the emotion like a drug addict hungered for a hit. Hanson knew he wasn't liked here; hell if the reception was any warmer inmates would be urinating on his beaten form.

"Move your ass _boy_"

Hanson scanned the face before him, saw the hatred etched across the features of the man before him. It was step up time; _fight or flight?_

He took an unsteady step forwards, felt the heat blistering from the larger man before him. The scorch of detest seared through the thin prison fabric.

" You aren't the boss of me" muttered Hanson breathlessly, he recoiled from the gleam of exhilaration in Nail's eyes.

He laughed, the raspy crow of delight splitting the air. He wiped a glistening palm against his robust face, washed the traces of delight from his features, his face a picture of all seriousness.

"Cop, you don't gots a clue" he replied, his tone laced with danger.

"I'm not a cop" _Not anymore._

"Nah, you be a cop _killer_" corrected Nail, his lips curling upwards into a smirk. Hanson inhaled sharply, the injustice of the statement slicing him to the core.

He remained mute, his split lip jutting with defiance. He was sick of being castrated for this lie, his eyes blazed with insolence. He would not cower and submit to the ways of the prison.

He flinched as he felt the heavy hand hit his shoulder, tried his best to shrug off the unwanted touch. He turned, his eyes burning with defiance to find his fragile form mirrored in the mock filled orbs of Marco.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, the words leaking out amidst a torrent of venom.

Hanson cringed slightly, flinched inwardly from the sly smile that crept across Marco's features.

Doug tore at the bag, venting his frustrations on the plastic wrapper. He let forth a string of expletives as potato chips scattered and danced aboard the table top, claiming their home amongst the Chinese cartons that had survived the phone ambush.

He shrugged and picked a chip from the table, dusted down the excess noodles that had entwined their limp, cold body around the salted snack and bit down on the crinkled crisp his brow furrowed with annoyance.

He had to see Hanson, to check he was ok. He couldn't stop the small frightened tone of his best friend from crawling into his ears, resounding throughout his brain, the tremor of terror searing through his head and bursting savagely into his heart, scarring him there with the imprint of empathy.

The TV crackled in the background, the murmur of the inmates easily overpowering the voice of the broadcaster. Hanson kept his eyes fixated on the man's brown suit, the pixels flickering in and out of focus as he concentrated all his energy on trying to ignore the bits of paper that flew around his head.

" Hey fish!"

Hanson remained glued to the screen, the warbling of the announcer intermingling with the harsh taunting tone of Nail.

" _Fish"_ he snapped, his eyes glinting with annoyance. He raised the paper to his mouth, chewed it, his teeth chomping against the material, coating it with saliva. He hocked deep in the back of his throat, took careful aim and spat.

Hanson didn't move. He sat, frozen, as the soggy rag slipped behind his ear, slid down his cheek leaving a wet trail of spit against the pasty skin.

He lifted a trembling hand, bunched folds of fabric over his wrist and scrubbed at the flesh, streaking it with thin red welts, smearing the smudge of indignity as he tried to erase all trace of the other man's bodily fluid.

He inhaled softly as Nail exploded into harsh peals of perverse pleasure, closed his ears to the congratulatory shrieks that reverberated throughout the recreation room.

He just turned his attention back to the brown suited man on the TV, not even flinching when the spit ball missiles struck their intended target. He refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him explode; he pushed the tidal wave of turbulence deep inside and continued waiting for _Jeopardy _to start on TV, knowing that when Nail tried to answer the questions he wouldn't be trying to assault him with spit balls. He wasn't intelligent enough to multi task.

He felt his lips curl upwards slightly, the smirk itching to be released. He nibbled at his lip in an attempt to suppress the emotion, _surely they hated him enough already._


	7. Chapter 7

**I know it's been far too long since I updated I apologise. I was really busy with university stuff and then the holidays hit and inspiration left lol. I'm sorry, I hope I still have some readers lol. As always I appreciate everyone who reads and reviews. Hope you enjoy the chapter.**

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"_This nickname of Kentucky can refer to its landscape or its music"_

_Jeopardy _continued to blare in the background intermingling with the hustle and bustle of the common room.

"Hey fish!"

Hanson slumped downwards, his head barely raised above the back of the chair as he desperately tried to blend into the background.

"_Fish!" _

Hanson turned his chocolate coloured eyes unblinking as he stared into the flaming coals of Nail.

"Do _you_ know the answer?" he smirked, his thin lips curled upwards mockingly.

Hanson shrugged before returning his attention to the TV.

"Come on pig you can be more polite than that!" scoffed Nail, his eyes glinting dangerously.

Hanson gazed at him, a sour look scarring his features. _Pig, fish – what next? Horse? _

"Why would _I_ know the answer?" he snapped furiously, all pretence of humility erased from his tone.

"You needs to be smarts to be a cop do youse not?"

Hanson stared at him, his mind whirling as he tried to decipher the meaning of the words amongst the mess of grammatical inaccuracy and weird dialect.

"I tell you what fish me and you, we'll play a game" announced Nail softly when he received no reply from the former cop, "If you can answer all the questions on _Jeopardy_ I'll leave you alone"

Hanson glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He hated quiz shows, despised them with a passion.

He remained mute; his brown eyes a vortex of desperation.

"If _I_ win, then I get to play with _you_" smirked Nail, continuing as if Hanson had asked him a question.

Whoops and hollers of vicious excitement bristled through the room, the thrill of this outsider, this small helpless _cop_ finally getting his just deserts elicited anticipation to the highest degree in the other prisoners.

"No" he muttered quietly flicking strands of hair from his bruised face.

Nail's eyes darkened and burned with stubbornness at Hanson's refusal.

"You ain't gonna play?"

"What you deaf _and_ dumb?" spat Hanson his fury increasing at his own fear and intimidation.

An eerie hush spread through the prisoners like wildfire, silent admiration at Hanson's brashness and anticipation at his foolishness clouded the room.

"Boy you just signed your own death warrant"

"Don't recall signing shit" spat Hanson the bitter edge of fear wavering through his words.

He ran his tongue over his chafed lips once more, the bitter sweet sting of saliva reminding him that, at least for the moment, he was still a member of the living. Confined but alive at least.

He tried to push the dark thoughts from the back of his mind. No matter what happened death was not the more favorable option he reminded himself sternly.

The night bell shrieked in the silence. Nail kept his eyes locked on Hanson, the smaller man refused to drop his gaze. Hanson hardened his yielding chocolate coloured eyes into blazing black pools of fury and defiance.

With a clatter the common room door slammed against the unsteady wall, Collins stood flanked by several prison wardens his face a mask of annoyance.

"Bell's gone boys, you all gotta go to beddy byes" he mocked

"Bite me" hissed Nail

" You want some time in solitary Nail?" enquired Collins a smirk plastered to his greasy face.

"And deprive fish over there of all the quality time he and me's gonna be sharing? No thank you Mr. Collins," said Nail his eyes shimmering with enjoyment.

" Ah Hanson I see you're making more friends with each passing day"  
Hanson remained mute, rubbed his fingers against his palm firmly in an effort to quash the frustration he could feel building. He couldn't afford to let it peak, lashing out wasn't the answer. _Was it?_

"Yeah me and Hanson's best buds aren't we Angel?"

"No"

The denial slipped before he could prevent it. The irony that this bully thought he could manipulate him, continue making him the butt of his jokes irritated him deeply. How dare he compare himself to Doug? How dare he attempt to horn shoe himself into the spot of best friend. Just because he was in prison didn't mean he was suddenly cast off from old friends. Did it?

_Didn't Doug visit this morning?_

Hanson felt the smile creep across his face at the thought, his heart swelled at the memory. So what if he hadn't actually got to _see _Doug, he'd been here and he would come back. It was enough for now.

He floundered, was roused from the happy thought as he felt the harsh nails of Collins cut into his slender shoulders. He winced at the brutal treatment of his already tender frame.

"Come on Hanson time for bed" his harsh tone caressed and crackled against his earlobe.

"Don't touch me" snapped Hanson acrimoniously, his heart thumping in his chest manically.

"Tell them that, not me sweetheart" whispered Collins maliciously, "There's beating your ass and then there's _beating_ your ass and trust me sweet cakes my gate doesn't swing that way"

Hanson shuddered inwardly; the sexual undertone of the threat was not lost on him.

"Just let go" he pleaded finally, his voice dry and thin.

"First you and me need to have a little chat" said Collins softly as he steered the young inmate down the corridor into his office.

"Have a seat"

"I'll stand" replied Hanson quietly.

"_Sit!"_ commanded Collins aiming a threatening finger in Hanson's face. He tried his best not to flinch out of reach.

"Boy either sit voluntarily or I'll knock you down where you stand" hissed Collins furiously when Hanson refused to move.

"You're not supposed to treat me like this" whispered Hanson his voice strained. Still he stood, his fatigued body oozed resistance as he stared searchingly into the face of the cell block captain. He understood now why he despised himself, he hated the way he was so weak in the presence of these bullies. He loathed the fear that stifled his heart every time they looked at him and detested the shiver of trepidation that shot through his spine every time somebody spoke directly to him.

"You're not supposed to break into someone's house and then shoot them dead in cold blood but you did that. You're not supposed to be a cop and then go drag racing. But hey you did that too. What is it Hanson one rule for you and another for the rest of the world?"

Hanson stared at him feeling his chest contract as he struggled for breath over the lump he felt building in his tightening throat. Was nothing his anymore? Not even his past?

"I didn't kill him" he croaked eventually

" Didn't drag race either? Didn't break into a fellow officer's apartment?"

Hanson stared, he parted his lips slowly before bringing them to a close.

" It's all in your file"

Hanson peered at him; cast his glance from the cell block captain to the filing cabinet.

"You don't like rules very much do you Hanson?"

"You're the one breaking them" whispered the smaller man, "Not me"

"How did I break the rules Hanson?"

Hanson stared at him his eyes dull and sparse, the vibrant glow snuffed to the darkness of despair and defeat.

" Come on Hanson!" barked Collins harshly, " You're so great at running that huge mouth of yours, how did I break the rules?"

"I wanna go back to my cell"

"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU WANT!" exploded Collins sending the items on his desk crashing to the floor. He yanked Hanson against the pine his chest heaving with fury. How dare this little fuck up constantly speak out of turn, question him and disobey his instructions. Even after the beating he'd dished out this morning.

The fact that the former cop couldn't be visibly cowed irked him beyond belief. The way those soft doe eyes refused to water and weep in his intimidating presence made his blood boil. He dug his fingers into the brittle and already tender flesh of the small man. Hanson's refusal to allow his spirit to shatter enticed Collins - the thought that he could toy with him; chip away at his worth for the next fifteen years practically had him salivating at the mouth. He ached to destroy him, to shred his soul, to sever the baby-faced youth before him.

_He'd break him yet. Just like all the others. _

Hanson balked at the rage filled face before him, the red pulsating flesh made his stomach churn. The manic look in the storm wrenched holes of hatred made his skin crawl.

_And he thought it was the inmates he had to be scared of. _


	8. Chapter 8

**I know, I suck. I really suck. See the thing is, I kinda wasn't as into 21 Jump Street as I once was. I'm still not into it as much as I was in all honesty so the fics suffered. I was all out of ideas, I was struggling through university and personal stuff and I dunno I just didn't want to attempt writing something I wasn't into because I just knew I'd end up screwing the whole thing up. When your heart's not in something it's kind of hard to write it. Well anyway I eventually got round to churning out a chapter, I actually enjoyed writing it after I managed to get back into it, hopefully I still have Hanson's character down and Penhall and the rest too. If not well then I'm sorry. I know a lot of you are probably annoyed with me for taking so long to update stuff. I am still writing bits and pieces of Love is a battlefield but On my own is really really hard to get back in to. I never wanted to be one of those people who just abandoned a fic hence why I keep on trying. I feel bad for not updating in so very long and I'm sorry. I do say I won't abandon my fics but there may be lengthily pauses in updates. I'm sorry but I just am not that inspired at the moment, I hope you understand and enjoy the chapter. Oh yeah, my apologies for the long A/N but I thought I should at least provide some explanation for my long absence from the 21 Jump Street fandom. **

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"PENHALL!"

Doug startled, raised his head to see his guilty gaze mirrored in the burning coals of his captain. The grim look on Fuller's face withered any witty comment that trembled on his lips.

Fuller indicated his office with his thumb the sour look scarring his irate face.

Doug stood, allowed the breath of defeat to escape lightly as he walked the proverbial mile from his desk to his superior's office. At one time he and Hanson had joked that being called into Fuller's quarters when he was in this mood was like an inmate walking the Green Mile. That joke was long gone in the wake of Hanson's departure. Suddenly the thought of someone walking the Green Mile didn't seem funny anymore.

Doug shut the door with a light click, turned to face his captain.

"You want to tell me what _these_ are all about?" barked Fuller indicating the sheets of paper before him.

Penhall glanced down; cast his gaze across the black print until it merged into a blur.

"Complaint forms" mumbled the young officer

"What?"

"Complaint forms" repeated Doug loudly

"Bingo! Complaint forms from Fulham Prison. What the hell have you been doing Penhall? Showing up at random times, sending them letters on an almost daily basis-"

"They won't let me see Hanson" interjected Doug swiftly

"Says here that Hanson keeps sending back letters denying you the right to visit"

"Bullshit" swore Doug vehemently

"Penhall" warned Fuller

"I haven't seen Tom in over six weeks captain. Every time I go to that place they say he's sick or in solitary, doesn't that sound a little weird to you?!" exploded Doug his voice as hard and cold as steel.

"Well-"

"Come on Captain, Hanson hardly ever got sick, now all of a sudden he's getting sick every day?!"

"Prison isn't exactly standard living Penhall" snapped Fuller harshly, "The top priority of the place is rehabilitation not relaxation"

"Hanson doesn't _need_ rehabilitation" spat Doug viciously, "I swear if they hurt him I'll-"

"You'll what? Go in all guns blazing? Tell me Penhall, how _helpful_ are you gonna be as his cell buddy?" interjected Fuller scathingly, " Now if Tom's refusing you visitation rights there's nothing we can do but wait until he changes his mind. It's a cold place Doug, it's gotta be rough on him. Maybe he just needs some time to adjust and come to terms with things"

"Hanson didn't refuse my visitation plea I _know_ he didn't!" cried Doug

Fuller rifled through the vast documents before him, handed Penhall the dog eared file without a word.

Doug stared down at the marks breathlessly. The yellow page quivered in his hold as the scratchy penmanship blurred against the lines.

The writing ran, each line bleeding into the next bar the one that stood so heavy and prominent against the stark page. Hanson's familiar signature sat firmly next to the checked box, the tick so neat and precise, so Tom Hanson.

He really had refused all visitation rights.

And all Doug could ponder was why.

Hanson sat tracing his fingers lightly against the grooves in the wall, tallies of torture against the dull brick. He brushed over the residue of a million markings; the prison calendar of time served and the eternity remaining to be served.

He gnawed at puckered lips, the skin tender and sore from this anxious tic he had developed, his teeth chewing at ruptured skin until he drew blood from fear.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been here, had long lost count as each repetitive day blended into the next, his body felt weighted in conformity. Stripped of identity he felt so worthless.

Stripped of privacy and dignity he felt so dirty.

The thoughts surfaced before he could block them, of Collins' office, of propositions and –

He faltered, his mind desperately swerving the thought that held him to the edge; that clawed his heart, stole his soul and pushed him closer and closer to the brink.

He wet dry and chafed lips, heart beating wildly as his chin quivered.

Marco had long been moved, Collins knew Hanson was easier to break when secluded. The former officer had come to depend on company, had spent the best part of three years depending on a network of peers and friends, here in this cell he had nothing but himself and Tom Hanson was rapidly discovering that he wasn't the person he'd thought he was.

Qualities he'd once admired he now loathed and detested, his meticulous nature was a downfall even he could not overcome. When the world needed to be neat and tidy, with each 'I' dotted and each 't' crossed, life in prison became a cold and startling place.

When you'd spent the best part of your career imitating a teenager and had the looks to match prison became downright terrifying.

When you hadn't had human contact in over two months you began crying out to God, Hanson had discovered this late at night, when he could no longer stifle the low sobs, when his pillow became so drenched in tears he thought he would drown in salted beads of sorrow.

In low whispers he would converse with the Man upstairs, the almighty power who had cast him here, left him and doused him in suffering.

Loneliness was overwhelming and he could feel himself crack in the shadows, his eyes tarnished with nightmares, the windows to his once vibrant soul now hollow tunnels to a festered and rotted spirit, blackened orbs of derision and deprecation.

He glanced around the cell, his eyes flickering over the soiled dungeon that contained him.

His blood still spotted the tiles, faded but there nonetheless.

Hanson clambered slowly from his bed, the blue uniform hung from his frail and thinning body; lack of nutrition had left him vulnerable.

He coughed, the hacking ailment echoing around the walls smothering him in illness he had yet to recover from.

He stood in front of the cracked mirror, his face distorted in a thousand glistening pieces of glass, the thin and waxy skin stretched taut over his sunken and skeletal features.

Raising a quaking hand he dragged his fingers over the faded smears, tracing the rivulets of sullied blood, the brown smudges of his life reminded him of a stronger person.

He gripped the side of the sink forcefully, he needed out. He couldn't survive another second let alone fifteen years in here.

He felt his hazel eyes well with tears as he glanced into the broken mirror, the shattered pieces reflecting his fragmented soul.

He was no longer whole. No longer strong and resilient.

He was nothing more than a broken and beaten cellmate forced into submission, backed into a corner he could no longer fight his way out of.

His eyes sought refuge, fought for freedom. He blinked ferociously as the tears fell, shadowing the world around him.

Through his haze the glass and flecking blood merged into one, the red and silver merging into a watery beacon of hope.

All it would take was one shard of glass, one single piece to draw the ragged lines across his paper thin skin.

One splinter could end this suffering, could bleed the hurt and pain from his shivering torso, could lead him to the light and set him free.

Several seconds of pain would be nothing compared to the agony he was enduring in this hell, all he had to do was reach out and he could break the mirror free, he stood poised, the glass twinkling in the dim light, the torn edge lay on the groove of his wrist as he glanced down, small beads of blood bubbled along the surface as he lightly drew the glass across.

There was no pain; he couldn't force himself to cut deep enough. Knew that Tom Hanson was a lot of things but coward had never been one of them, not until now.

He dropped the glass with a clatter, the sob tore deep from him as he sank to the floor, his face wet and twisted with sorrow as he heaved, his body trembling.

The small nick in his wrist oozed tiny droplets, the small spots of red stained the blue uniform purple.

He looked down at the wound he had inflicted, winced as his tears splashed down upon it.

If it took courage to kill yourself, what did it take to stay alive?

Hanson sniveled slightly, his eyes raw from the tears he had shed, he leaned his head against his arms, ignoring the sting of pain that trembled through his wrist when the scratchy fabric made contact.

He sat with his head bowed, time swimming around him in an endless void of loneliness and depression. His mind continued to berate him, dragged up resentment and scorn for the pathetic human being he had become.

With a shaking breath he exhaled a low moan of grief, his strength of mind too crushed to refute the self criticism he heaped upon himself.

His shame turned to fury as his mind wove a path of recollection, faces of friends flashed before him. Friends he thought had known him better.

He was so sure Doug wouldn't have believed the form, was positive he would have seen the way his writing sloped and scratched under pressure, would see that he hadn't refused the visitation but that he had been confined under protest to a life of introverted incarceration.

He'd begged and bargained with the Lord during his sleepless nights. Had promised and vowed to live this life without complaint if He would only allow him the solace of Doug.

When Doug had still not returned to the prison he had pleaded for Judy or Fuller, anyone, just one single solitary person who cared.

God had yet to deliver.

"Hanson?"

The whisper filtered through the bars, the voice low and edged with pity.

He raised his head, his matted bangs framing his pale face.

His eyes locked on the dark pools of compassion, the well known sneer so clear across the features he had not seen in months, not since he had sat on the witness stand and watched those ash coloured orbs flicker with confusion as he gave his testimony. The man who had sat so comfortably beside Farrell at his own colleague's trial, Hanson felt his blood boil as he rose, his body quivering with rage.

If this was God's idea of a joke then he wasn't laughing.

The last person he would choose as his personal Saviour would be Dennis Booker.

He startled backwards as the Prison Guard buzzed the cell door open, the bars retreating with a clatter.

And all the while Dennis stood poised, the obnoxious smirk not wavering as he snapped at his gum.

All the hatred and torment swam around him, the cat calls and insults buzzed in his ears as Hanson lunged, knocking the abhorrent grin from Booker's face with a strong blow to the jaw.

He stood panting with fury as the prison guard wrestled him into handcuffs, a self satisfied smile gracing his features as he stared down at the bleeding cop before him with disgust.

Some Saviour.


End file.
